Hidden Lanterns
by MirrorMyThoughts
Summary: Sometimes no matter how far you run, or how often you hide, darkness will still find you. It is then, in the darkest shadows and the most frightening of nights, that a light will appear: a friend. Someone who, no matter what, will keep you safe.


Title: Hidden Lanterns.

Summary: Sometimes no matter how far you run, or how often you hide, darkness will still find you. It is then, in the darkest shadows and the most frightening of nights, that a light will appear: a friend. Someone who, no matter what, will keep you safe.

AN: Set at the beginning of season three. AU

~o~

"_Fléotan æppel, fléotan_."

His pronunciation was wrong. He knew it. His magic knew it. And somewhere echoing in his bones Merlin could _hear_ how it was supposed to be said, how the man who'd written the book had shortened the '-tan' part; quick and abrupt, yet he found _his_ lips forming the words with almost a delicate ease, slowly sliding the words across his tongue.

"_Fléotan æppel, fléotan_."

His accent only seemed to draw the words out longer, as the 'F's curled and stretched, lazily sliding into the air. Glumly his magic twisted and warped itself, attempting to blend and fuse with the accented words; wrong words, unnecessary words.

"_Fléotan æppel, fléotan_!"

Third attempt.

Abandoning all pretence of being guided by his words, unseen tendrils enveloped the small red fruit lying innocently on the table and the young warlock could only blink as the apple rose into the air. Part of him sighed in annoyance because he _knew_ that wasn't supposed to happen; it was supposed to… well… _float_- not act as though it was atop a invisible table, yet even then he couldn't suppress the pleasure at the spells success. (Even if the spell was annoyingly easy…)

_That's cheating Emrys._

He rolled his eyes, he knew that, but it was hardly his fault that his magic detested the use of words; words that really did nothing but hinder his use of magic. He closed the book. The apple somersaulted in agreement. Merlin turned in smug satisfaction to properly address his friend. "I thought you wanted to sleep."

_I tried. _

"Nightmare?" Now that he thought about it, the boy looked dreadful, his skin was paler than usual, and his normally vibrant blue eyes seemed dull, and troubled. Merlin beckoned the boy forwards, taking the boys silence to mean his was accurate in his assumption. He nodded to at the apple, believing that maybe magic would help ease the boys mind. "Lets see you try it then." He said, with exaggerated annoyance, while the grin on his face let his companion know he was merely joking.

_You know I can't._

Merlin reached over to ruffle the youths mop of dark hair. "Practice makes perfect."

_Then why can't you do it? Emry's. _

Merlin snorted in amusement at the youths developing sense of humour. "I simply haven't practiced enough yet." He reached out with his magic and carefully lowered the apple back down to the table, ignoring the boy's raised eyebrow as he boycotted the use of words. He had forgotten the appropriate ones anyway. "Come on, try."

The boy sat down opposite him, the apple stationary between them. A few glowing balls of blue light cast shadows around the pair as they shared a moment of stillness. The boy pulled the book towards him and cautiously flicked through, searching for the correct spell. Merlin allowed him to take his time, noticing with each turn of a page the boys demeanour became more relaxed, as though the old coarse pages some how soothed him.

Upon finding the correct page, Merlin watched his eyes dart over the passage several times, re-reading the parts on pronunciation. Merlin then watched as the boy silently mouthed the spell. He silently practiced forming the words several times before he looked up and focused on the apple. His arm stretched out, and Merlin felt his gaze soften as he noticed the boys hand was trembling. It seemed the nightmare had really got to him. Merlin sighed, as much as he wanted to, he knew it wasn't the right time to bring it up. They would talk about the nightmare tomorrow, when the sun was up and what ever monsters the boy had in his dreams seemed far away, and out of reach.

"_Fléotan æppel, fléotan_!"

Merlin smiled. Of course the youth pronounced it right, and just to further rub in the warlocks complete _failure_ at pronouncing spells, the apple hovered a few inches into the air; granted a little wobbly, but that could be linked the still trembling hand. Blue eyes found his and they both paused, as if waiting for something… then, as several heartbeats passed uneventfully, they relaxed.

"See, I thought you said you couldn't do it?" He reached out again to ruffle the boys dark hair, it never failed to make the boy smile, even if it annoyed the youth at the same time. "Well done, Mordred."

Then, like all the times before, the apple exploded.

~O~

Merlin jerked from his sleep, his heart pounding and his breath coming in quick short gasps. What was that? The clarity of the images were quickly slipping from his mind as the dream faded. But he remembered enough. He'd been sat with Mordred. With Mordred. A boy who was destined to kill Arthur.

Merlin flopped back down onto his pillow.

He'd been concerned for the boy. Even now as he began to forget the details of his dream, he could not forget the ease of their companionship. He recalled ruffling the boys short hair, an action Arthur and Gwaine are often fond of bestowing upon him.

In his dream, he had been friends with Mordred. They had been _friends_. Merlin's eyelids fluttered shut. Mordred was destined to kill Arthur. The dragon had told him this. Had warned him, more than once, not to help the boy. Each time Merlin had ignored his advice. Once however, he had even attempted to have the boy killed…. guilt stirred beneath his chest at the memory. It hadn't felt right.

He wasn't naïve. He'd killed people before, more than he cared to admit. All in service to Arthur, to his- their destiny. Never before had it caused such conflict. He brought his hands up to cover his face. But something about Mordred was different, he still felt killing the boy was unnecessary. Mordred was, after all, just a boy. What could he possibly do to Arthur?

With a sigh, he swung his legs out of bed as he pushed himself upright. There was little chance of going back to sleep, not with thoughts of Mordred and his destiny whizzing round his head. He groped around in the darkness for a shirt. He couldn't think in the close confines of the castle. His mind coveted the cool night air and the openness of the night that had been merely a wall away back in Ealdor. He cautiously opened the door to his room, listening carefully for Gaius's soft snores.

He'd grown used to sneaking out passed his old friend, so upon hearing the mans consistent, even breaths he stepped carefully across the room. Moments later he exited the physicians quarters and moved off down the narrow corridor.

The night air was cool against his skin, the slight breeze whistled through his hair. He felt himself start to relax, the tension he'd woken with already fading from his limbs. It hadn't felt like a prophetic dream, but Merlin sensed within himself a restlessness. Something that remained, even as his anxiety seeped from his muscles, something lingered that was awake and alert. He leant his arms against the battlements, staring absently at the guards bellow.

Their slumped forms calmed him, and he stopped analysing the dream, stopped fretting over the weight in his gut, he just watched. Observing the casual companionship between them. With one leaning slightly on the other as exhaustion began to set in. Normalcy. This is what he needed. This is what he craved: little reminders that his destiny wasn't the be all and end all. There was more to Camelot, more to life than the task placed upon his inexperienced shoulders.

Sometimes he wished more than anything the dragon was still in Camelot. He wanted its advice. He missed the low rumbling tones of the aging creature. Sure he'd been manipulated more often than he could forgive, but he still sought the easy kinship that had -in the beginning- formed between them. Presently their relationship was strained, the confrontation following the siege on Camelot was still too fresh in both of their minds. Forgiving was difficult. Forgetting; impossible.

Of course the Dragon had assisted him recently, had arrived once called. Yet Merlin worried it was because he had no choice, rather than any sense of companionship- or even friendship between them. It was an uncomfortable arrangement. Merlin wouldn't ask as he feared the answer, but he couldn't begin to trust the Dragon again until he knew. Did the dragon help because he had no choice or- was there, even after the betrayal and arguments, still a delicate kinship between them…?

One of the guards yawned. Merlin found himself chuckling. His thoughts were pretty boring weren't they. It didn't matter that the guard couldn't possibly have yawned in response of Merlin's musings, the action was enough to rouse him from thoughts. Dwelling on things didn't help. Shaking his head in amusement he turned his gaze out over the battlements at the lightening sky. He hadn't realised how late it was. In a few hours he'd have to wake Arthur, but for now he was content to watch the sun rise, with the two guards bellow for company. In moments like this things were so simple. So wonderfully simple.

~O~

Things weren't simple. If anything, they were about as complicated as they could possibly get. The first was Morgana's return to Camelot a few weeks ago. He'd felt happy, so undeniably happy when he saw she was alive; she'd _survived_, that he momentarily forgot he was the one who poisoned her, and that she knew it was him. Perhaps that's why he'd believed her so quickly, how he'd foolishly believed that she was still the beautiful breathtaking Lady Morgana who remained loyal to Camelot.

Then there was that- _thing_, with the skeletons and Morgana, and suddenly everything turned on its head. Morgana wasn't his ally anymore. Wasn't Arthur's ally anymore. She was a danger to Camelot. A danger to her _home_. However, awful as it was, he could cope. Part of him had always suspected, and for the weeks following the skeletons attack on Camelot he'd kept a close eye on her.

But then…

Merlin stiffened as he heard footsteps echo down the corridor. Unconsciously he pressed backwards against the wall of the little alcove he was hiding in. He needed space, just for a moment, to gather his thoughts.

He relaxed slightly when the footsteps passed, it wasn't that he was doing anything wrong, he just didn't want to deal with anyone right now. Not today.

Not when Mordred was sat in a cage just inside the throne room awaiting execution.

Witch finder's had arrived just a few hours after the sun had risen. With them they bought a small covered cage, much like the one Freya had been kept in, only it was small enough for the four men to carry between them. The cage felt strange, almost evil, and Merlin was originally weary as to what it contained. Only for it to be uncovered to reveal the small druid boy.

Thankfully no one noticed his sharp intake of breath, as it was hidden under the sound of clanging. Morgana's goblet had slipped from her fingers. The entire throne room echoed with the noise, and everyone waited to see what happened next. It wasn't a surprise when Uther sent her to her room, kicking and screaming as guards dragged her away. Everyone remembered that Morgana had once helped the boy.

Merlin _remembered_.

Remembered the moments where they'd stood frantically over Mordred's body as they fought to bring down the boys fever. When they'd talked, in hushed whispers, and careful words as they plotted to save him; together. He also remembered, though he tried not to, moments when she'd taken his breath away. When her willingness to help the boy, even though he had magic, caused Merlin think that maybe, just maybe he could tell her the truth; about himself, about what magic was really like.

But it wasn't meant to be. And now it was too late. He didn't trust her, and she sure as hell didn't trust him. To offer up his secret, with all it entailed, to a person who had recently tried to bring Camelot to its knees- it wasn't possible.

He leant his head back against the wall. Eyes closed and heart heavy. He brushed his thoughts of Morgana aside. She wasn't his concern at the moment. Instead he had to decided what to do with Mordred. He didn't need to summon the dragon to know Kilgharrah would tell him to let the boy die.

He didn't need to talk with Gaius to know the aging physician would probably say the same thing. That the boy wasn't Merlin's concern… but he _was_. They were both creatures of magic. Like Morgana, and all the others Merlin hadn't saved from Uther's pyre. More than that, Merlin felt responsible for the boy. Ever since he helped him years ago and even later, when he'd tried to kill the boy (thankfully he'd failed), there was a part of him that wondered after Mordred's fate. Now, as ironic as it was, he would be left to wonder no longer, he would see the end; as the boy burned.

Could he really let that happen? It couldn't have been a coincidence that the night before Mordred arrived in Camelot he had a dream in which they were friends. It couldn't be a coincidence, but at the same time Merlin knew he wasn't a prophet, he didn't have prophetic dreams, that was Morgana's specialty.

_Morgana_. There wasn't a doubt in Merlin's mind that she would try and save the boy. He was tempted to back off completely and simply let her do it. But he couldn't help the niggling feeling in his gut that _he_ should do something.

He laughed bitterly to himself. As if he didn't already have enough on his plate. Now he was worrying after the fate of the boy. He knocked his head backwards against the wall at the thought. Had he really become this kind of person? A person who thought of another persons life as 'just' something else to worry about? Was this what destiny was making him into? Someone who did what ever it took to ensure Arthur became king.. And then what?

He'd already poisoned Morgana. He had been prepared to watch her die. For Arthur, for Camelot; For Albion. Was he prepared to do it again? Could he handle the nightmares, the guilt that made every shadow her face, over and over, her expression never changing, as she realised he'd poisoned her. Could he let Mordred die and watch as his face merged with hers?

No. He couldn't.

He may have damned Morgana but he would not make the same mistake again. No matter what it took, he would do the right thing. Somehow, he would save Mordred.

~O~

AN: I've had this idea for ages, literally ages, but always lacked the motivation to do something with it. I'm hoping that sharing it will give me the necessary kick up the backside to actually finish it. Perhaps.


End file.
